


Four (and Four)

by Eglantine



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Aftermath, Bonding, F/M, Gen, Mourning, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 01:09:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4080751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eglantine/pseuds/Eglantine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irma Boissy rallies the ladies. The barricades have fallen and they must look to empty rooms and the things left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four (and Four)

Someone was knocking on the door and Musichetta was determined to ignore it, though from the unceasing rhythmic pounding, it seemed that whoever-it-was was no less determined to get in. The tone changed, moved— the knocker had perhaps, grown tired, and resorted to kicking the door?— and then the door swung open, and Irma Boissy, the prettiest boot-stitcher in Paris, stepped primly inside.

“Oh. It’s you,” Musichetta sighed, resisting the temptation to pull the blankets over her head. “You have a key, why did you have to wake me up?”

“Medora’s here too. We were trying to be polite,” Irma said, pocketing said key and then bending to brush off the tip of the boot she had used to kick the door. Behind her, Medora poked her head around the frame, then followed Irma in. “I’ve heard you’ve been holed up in here mourning, and that simply will not do.”

“That’s not what I’m doing, but so what if it were?” Musichetta protested, finally forcing herself to sit up in bed. “I’ve been unwell. A cold— his last gift.” 

“Yes, good, that’s the spirit,” Irma said stoutly. Medora seemed less convinced, though she, like Irma, still looked perfectly fresh-faced and put-together. “They would have left us sooner or later.”

“So you’ve often said,” Musichetta said tightly, glad her pale cheeks and reddened eyes could be blamed on a cold. “Is that all? Because otherwise, I’d like to go back to sleep.”

“No,” Irma said, her gaze settling on Musichetta. “It’s not. We’re going to gather up their things.” 

Musichetta’s fists tightened unconsciously in the blanket. “Why? Surely someone—their families—”

“What of your Lesgle? He had no living family, did he?” Irma said. Musichetta had never quite understood what men found so beautiful about Irma’s pristine coolness. But it was in full force now, her blue eyes icy, her fine mouth firm and set, while Musichetta felt her own chin quaver and had to look away. 

“I can see that Bahorel's things are sent to his family,” Medora said softly. “How will they get it otherwise?” 

“And that’s to say nothing of the more— sensitive things. Courfeyrac, for example… you know he had names and lists and pamphlets that it would be better for Monsieur de Courfeyrac to never see.” 

Musichetta scrubbed her hands over her face, refusing to meet Medora and Irma’s gazes. She didn’t want to go, of course. It was wet out and her head ached and she wanted desperately not to cry in front of Irma, but wasn’t sure she could manage it for an entire day. But— to go, to _see—_

“Let me dress,” she mumbled. 

“We’ll help,” Medora said, going at once to the dresser, and Irma’s expression, though she said nothing, could almost be called pleased. 

* 

Medora had been keeping Bahorel company almost precisely as long as Musichetta had Joly: they’d met the students together, on the same night, though Bahorel had moved rather more quickly than Joly managed to. 

As they walked, Irma leading the way, Medora slipped her hand wordlessly into Musichetta’s and held on tight. Musichetta realized that, unmoved as Medora seemed, she had never gone so long without seeing Medora smile. 

Musichetta lived near the rue de la Verrerie and the rooms belonging to Courfeyrac, and so these were their first destination. 

“Look at her,” Irma whispered, slowing her pace to fall into step alongside Medora and Musichetta as they drew near. There was a young woman lurking hesitantly on the street in front of number 16, clearly uncertain how— or perhaps if— to proceed. “Quite the fine lady.”

“Surely not his sister?” Medora asked.

“Certainly not,” Musichetta sniffed. “Look at that dress. That’s from a lover, I’d wager anything. Someone who knows how things should look, but not how they should be made.” 

“A girl that age shouldn’t wear damask,” Medora agreed solemnly. 

At that moment, the girl turned towards them, and when her eyes fell on the trio of young ladies, relief suffused her features. She was terribly pretty, Musichetta couldn’t help but notice, and carried herself well, her chin high, though her hands fluttered nervously together. 

“I beg your pardon,” she said, starting hesitantly towards them. “I was wondering if— do you know, um—”

“Are you looking for someone?” Medora asked gently. “For Monsieur Courfeyrac?” 

The girl nodded. 

“What are you called?” Irma asked, stepping forward.

“Cosette,” she said (and this confirmed, to Musichetta at least, that she was no bourgeoise, for unquestionably that was a pet name like Medora— or Musichetta). “And I know— at least, I think… he died, didn’t he.” 

“Yes,” Irma said, and Medora’s hand, still clasped in Musichetta’s, clenched tighter for an instant. “How did you know him?”

“Well, you see, I didn’t know him, exactly,” Cosette said, looking sheepish. “I never—that is, my, um, my fiancé he—lived here. Lives here? Lived—”

She was rescued from her muddle over verb tenses by a sudden, rather loud gasp from Medora. 

“You’re Pontmercy’s lover, aren’t you!” she cried, then clapped a hand over her mouth, though whether this was in embarrassment at having shouted it so loudly or in shock at her own revelation was not entirely clear to Musichetta. But she did not dwell long on this—she was too busy looking anew at the pretty little girl who had blushed bright red in apparent confirmation of Medora’s declaration. 

“My God, are you?” Irma asked. Cosette nodded. “Oh, Courfeyrac would be absolutely spitting with jealousy. Can you possibly know, my dear, how badly he wished to know who you are?”

“Oh that’s… that’s terribly kind of him,” she said, looking more than a little bewildered.

“Marius would never breathe your name to a soul,” Medora said, apparently having recovered from her embarrassment. “It drove them all mad.” 

“You’ve come for his things, haven’t you,” Musichetta said. The other three seemed surprised to hear her speak. Cosette nodded once again. 

“My— no one knows I’m here.” She ducked her head shyly. “I wasn’t sure I would be able to find the way.” 

“Irma has a key. You may come with us.” 

“You’re welcome, of course,” Irma said. “Would you like to?”

“Yes, thank you, I’d be so very grateful,” she said. 

“I’m Irma,” she said. “And this is Medora, and Musichetta. We knew your Marius’s friends.” 

“Then I am very glad to meet you,” she said.

“Jeanne,” Medora said suddenly. “My name is Jeanne. If you’d prefer.” 

(Musichetta remembered a winter night, a crowded room, Bahorel had teased one of Medora’s chestnut curls through his fingers and said _suppose I call you Medora._ ) 

“Euphrasie,” Cosette said. “Is my name.” 

Musichetta knew it was her turn to return the gesture, but at Medora’s quick glance, she shook her head. More than ever she wanted to be Musichetta, who did not tell her real name, who tormented boys with a pout, who cared only for gifts and well-fitting trousers, not Myriam, who felt more than she knew how to say. 

"Come then. We'll go look." Irma offered her arm and, after a moment of startled hesitation, Cosette took it. As they started up the stairs, Musichetta began to follow, but Medora tugged her sleeve and held her back.

“I had no idea Marius was on the barricades, too,” she murmured, eyes still on the doorway, as if afraid Cosette might suddenly decide to turn back around.

“Nor I,” Musichetta admitted. “Was he killed?”

“Surely,” Medora replied. “She called him her fiancé. It’s a clever idea, really. It’s not as if he can dispute it, if he’s dead. Perhaps she’s—” She made a gesture to imply _with child._ Musichetta looked worriedly to the girl, arm-in-arm with Irma, ascending the stairs. 

“She’s so young,” Musichetta said. 

Medora laughed, but it didn’t sound like it usually did. “We’re not so very old ourselves. Come. We should go in.”

“No,” Musichetta said, pulling her hand away as Medora tugged it. “I don’t— let her alone to do it. I’m afraid I’ll cry, and then Irma will scold me and I will not be able to stand it.”

“She won’t scold you,” Medora said. Musichetta let out a short, skeptical laugh and Medora insisted, “Truly. I’ve been with her since— since. I know she is being rather… --but she means well."

For no specific reason— and that is how it had been these past days, just nothing in particular, and then— something in Medora’s voice, in her familiar sweet, forgiving tone, made Musichetta start to cry. Without hesitation, Medora pulled Musichetta into an embrace, and for several long moments they stood there, right on the doorstep of number 16. Musichetta would gladly have stayed there all day, but a gentle hand on her back forced her awareness back to the world outside, and she turned to see Irma and Cosette. Irma carried a bag she had not before, Cosette had only a small, slightly battered book pressed to her chest. 

Musichetta lifted her chin, all but daring Irma to comment. Cosette fumbled for a moment before producing a handkerchief, which she offered wordlessly. 

“They chose to do it, you know,” Irma said. Her voice was low. Still not gentle, exactly, but softer. “You must grant them that dignity, not wish it away.” 

“I know,” Musichetta said. “But I miss them.” 

“Yes,” Irma said. “I know.”

Musichetta noticed then how tightly she was clenching the handle of Courfeyrac’s bag—her knuckles were white. Irma must have noticed where her gaze fell, for she said, or began to say, “I didn’t expect—”

Medora reached out and took Irma’s free hand. 

“He left such a mess,” Irma said with an odd little laugh. “I expected… order. Arrangements. He left his book on the table. He thought he would be back to finish it. I wonder when he knew he would not.” She shook her head and looked away. “We need not go today. I should not have insisted. We will go when the both of you are ready.” 

“I am ready,” Medora said, tightening her grip on Irma’s hand. “If you are here, I am ready. Things are as they are. We will be sad, and it will be hard, and then— it will not. Sooner or later.”

“If you say _we will forget,_ I swear to you—”

“We will _not_ forget,” Irma said fiercely. “We will not.” 

“You have always said—” Musichetta began, but Irma cut her off.

“Cads who leave you, spoiled students who break your heart— those are for forgetting. They _did_ something. They deserve better.” 

“Tell me about them,” Cosette said suddenly. As they all looked to her in surprise, she shrunk back slightly, but her gaze and her voice were steady and certain as she said, “If you please. If you can. Tell me about them. And I promise I will not forget it.” 

It would be a kind of prolonged, exquisite torture, surely, Musichetta thought. To have to think of them, to have to speak of them and say _was_ instead of _is._ She could go home, she thought and never have to look at the rooms that had been theirs and instead she could curl up around her grief and they and it would be hers always, just hers.

She said, “Come. We will go to Joly’s room, and you will see the bed is at a rather strange angle, and I will tell you why. Lesgle was continually dropping things behind it just where it was impossible to reach.” 

Irma said, “Did you see that dark green waistcoat on Courfeyrac’s chair? That was just the color of his eyes.” 

Medora said, “Bahorel knew more about Paris than I do, and I grew up here and he did not.” 

Cosette listened.


End file.
